The hoots and hollers of the crowd thinned, and behind blasting plate was muted entirely. No one around — who could smell — minded the pungent aroma of viscous synthetic oils, still hot from another successful run. A spindly fellow clothed in ratty denims waved minimally toward a diagnostic station, and her lithe, milled body settled in with a muffled clank.

“Yer turnin’ y’self inta scrap, Skitch.”

There was a little whirr as her faceplate lifted, hinged at her temples, to reveal her long faced and disinterested expression. Scratch hooked a tube into her torso and jammed his thumb into a panel, and the pedestal it clung to creaked. She inclined her eyes toward him, and they shimmered — or they used to — but now they latched on like they weren’t sure where else to go.

“Ah don’t like seein’ ya like this,” he intoned. “Winnin’ is fine — but parts are scarce. This ain’ murder-ball.”